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Small Boats

MIRROR The evening sky is helplessly hanging, a full-length mirror to the ground; Beyond the clouds, a faint, hardly visible star— Now seen, now lost, my image. ***
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TO LIVE

TO LIVE I feel that my life flows like a slow river, that it has neither beginning nor end, as if ever I were born nor could exist
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THRESHOLD

THRESHOLD At which erogenous zone of this language, nomad, tattoos the star of absence? The poem, a shelter without roots, opens to the obscure appeal of the roads.
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HARVEST

HARVEST Your voice sounded enchanting on the phone that warm day in August, and I dreamed of grapevines and ripened grapes full of sugar and drunkenness. And I
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